


somehow pizzaman

by alwaysactually



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dom John, I wrote this ages ago, M/M, Spanking, Sub Dave, the title is literally me musing about this fic, uh dave wears panties but its not that relevant idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysactually/pseuds/alwaysactually
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the boy who’s got your panties in a twist, dressed in a shitty pizza deliveryman costume complete with fake mustache giving you the most embarrassing excuse for bedroom eyes you've ever seen. And yet you still want his dick. Go figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	somehow pizzaman

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this last december and recently found it in a suspicious folder labeled wonk. past me you tricky devil you.

            You’re staring down the front door like a underpaid slob who’s spent his whole life stuck in a cubical and working for the weekend stares at a clock because goddamnit if he spends one more moment in this dead end job he’s not only gonna flip a bitch he’s gonna flip the whole damn office. But maybe you’re exaggerating. It’s hard to tell at this point. Your brain is sorta going at a million miles per hour at this point and things tend to get a bit weird at that point like a 5 gum commercial (you don’t care how fucking intense the wintergreen is supposed to be, it’s a piece of gum for Christ’s sake).

            You wish you had had the foresight to try and record a bit. Nothing like nerves to get your mouth going like a getaway boat in James fucking Bond. You’re sorry what was that? You’re too busy making out with a busty spy transformed by your roguish charm into a lady of the law and jumping a fucking shark while you singlehandedly win the presidential election. Sorry Obama, time to let a real man take over. You declare Back to the Future America’s national movie and have a private McDonald’s built into the White House. God Bless America.

            Fuck, you really are a mess. More of a mess than usual that is. All because it’s movie night. Or more accurately, ya’ll set up a movie, Bro gets out of your hair and John comes over and fucks your brains out until the wee hours of the morning or until your neighbors threaten to call the cops. What can you say, you’re a screamer. If you weren’t too busy drumming your hands and biting your lips like a virgin in a severely under-budget porno you’d raise your eyebrows up and down suggestively. Thanks genetics.

            You interlock your fingers and drop your hands and head trying to remember how to breathe. It involves moving your lungs right? You take in a deep breath but your lungs don’t seem to expand. There’s a knock at the door and you knee yourself in the face and say several words that aren’t allowed on the radio as a result.

            You realize your palms are sweating more than Richard Nixon on television and wipe them quickly on your jeans. You fidget with the locks on the door and it takes you longer than it should for someone who’s lived in this apartment for eighteen plus years to get them unlocked. Your wrench the door open.

            “Hello, ma’am did you order a pizza?”

            This is the boy who’s got your panties in a twist, dressed in a shitty pizza deliveryman costume complete with fake mustache giving you the most embarrassing excuse for bedroom eyes you’ve ever seen. And yet you still want his dick. Go figure.

            “Why no sir!” You lean against the door in what is meant to be an ironically provocative pose but knowing John might actually turn him on. He twirls the mustache, grinning widely with his stupid buck teeth.

            “Your husband then?” He’s eyeing you up and down know and you’re feeling a shiver come on and you realize you’re beyond gone for him and this wasn’t even the real deal. This was a shitty prank. At least you hoped it was. Oh god what if it wasn’t and the scenario actually turned you on and you forever have a hard-on for the pizzaguy and had to explain _that_ to Bro.

            “Oh no! You see,” you lean forward, peer over your shades, eyelashes fluttering, and murmur conspiratorially, “he’s not home you see.”

            It’s John’s cue to sweep in and he doesn’t disappoint, pulling the door closed behind him, setting the pizza down before (heh) _striding_ over to you and grabs your ass. Your hands are around his neck and he’s _fucking_ dipping you. Your eyes close and you feel his lips get close to yours and the punk giggles and drops your sorry ass on the floor.

            You glare up at him but he’s too damn busy guffawing (there’s no other way to describe how Egbert laughs all teeth and mirth and wow look at his gorgeous face) like there’s no tomorrow.

            “Sorry, Dave! Couldn’t resist!” You send a kick towards his ankle and he dodges easily despite the fact both his eyes are closed. You get to your feet, nerves forgotten after the unceremonious dumping, and make for the pizza.

            It’s plain old cheese which is really all John likes, but the fucker deserves some payback, so while he’s trying to wipe tears of laughter from his face you cover the pizza in Doritos and  M&Ms. Who’s laughing now, Egbert.

            You repeat the great line aloud (only a pure genius could come up with the likes of it) and he voices his disapproval (Gross! Come on, Dave! Not cool!) which is short lived once you threaten to add several packets of soy sauce on top of it all. You do, but only to your own portion.  Dude’s missing out.

                        You both proceed to stuff your faces while John continues to gloat. You take it all good naturedly. It was pretty fucking funny. The conversation goes pretty naturally from there. John recalls everything he did since he woke up that morning and you make snide comments while chugging apple juice. It’s when the talk winds down that the tension creeps up again.

            You’re just staring at his lips. John’s never been girly (except for his shota phase but that was more looking like a prepubescent girl than anything which is also what the boys looked like so) but he’s got a great mouth. Even his teeth were great. He had sort of grown into them and it was less of a dork alert and more of babe alarm. Houston, we have a problem, the boy you’re staring at has become an unapologetic hottie. It’s without thinking that you reach foreword and pull the dumb fake mustache off his upper lip.

            His eyes flash then behind his glasses like some shitty anime antagonist but you know your intent has been compromised. He laughs it off a second later, but when he tells you to pick a movie its less of a request and more of a command. And if you know one thing about John Egbert it’s that he is a bossy mofo in bed. And you’re his compliant bitch of a boyfriend. And that’s how you like it.

            You kneel before the TV and thumb through your collection of DVDs labeled

_complete and utter shit_

**hey i like these movies!**

_that’s how i know theyre shit_

and try to find something appropriately bad to suit Egbert’s taste. You’re past Ghost Rider and heavily considering the second National Treasure when he’s behind you. He’s at your neck, breathing in the smell. Christ. God you’re easy. You lean into him but he pulls back.

            “We’re skipping the movie, Strider.” You don’t turn around, but nod anyway. “Good. Get up.” You obey and get to your feet almost drunkenly. “Bed now.” He’s staying behind you so you can’t get a good look at his face but you could imagine. Oh you could imagine.

            The trip to the bedroom is both too long and too short. He didn’t give the order to turn around so you lay face down on the bed anticipation building. You hear the door shut as well as a grating sound (your deskchair?) but don’t move. You can feel his eyes on you and are momentarily tempted to lift your ass in the air if only to elicit a chuckle (or a slap honestly which one are you rooting for at this point).

            “Turn over.” You do, and see what Egbert’s up to. He’s pulled over your desk chair and is sitting legs crossed cool as a cucumber and is eyeing you up and down like you’re one of his movie posters. “Shoes off.” You move too quickly and slow down too suddenly. “Eager are we?” You get them both untied and kick them to the ground. “Shirt next.” You manage to go more slowly this time and try to give him a bit of a show.

            Then it’s off too and from the way he’s looking at you can tell you made an impression. You want the next part of it over quickly, your jeans are already feeling a bit tight. You fumble with your jeans but are stopped by a, “Dave.”You look up and he’s staring at you with a frown. Fuck. You feel heat rush to your cheeks and you can’t accurately say it’s from chagrin.

            “Shades, Dave.” You forgot you were even wearing them. That’s how it tended to go with John. You set them down more carefully then you did the shoes. “Good, now,” John shifts in place a predatory look on his face, “you know what happens when you’re too eager, Dave.” You nod, aware where this is going. “Off with the jeans, but then punishment.”

            You’re breathing hard now your heartbeat far too loud in your ears. You’re sure he can hear it. The jeans come off and somehow despite the rush in your head you notice his outtake of breath.

            “Dave,” he half groans. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

            He’s referring to the pink lace panties and matching kneesocks you’re wearing. John let it slip that he has a _thing_ for women’s lingerie and you figured he would appreciate what had been a joke gift from Bro this Christmas (at least you think it was a joke). He’s staring at you, a flush settling on his own face and your face grows hotter in response. His hand twitches towards the direction of his own jeans but he manages to restrain himself.

            He clears his throat and his voice is much rougher with the next command. “Lap, now.” It’s almost a whine and you would have mocked him for it if it hadn’t made your dick so hard. You comply immediately and his legs spread to accommodate you. You bend over his lap, ass up and can feel his own boner against your leg.

            His hand caresses your ass and you nearly purr. “How many would you suggest, Dave?” You know the game, aim low and he’ll go up to the amount you had in mind. You swallow loudly (wow there was a lot of spit in there).

            “Ten,” you offer, voice deceptively steady.

            “Twenty-five it is then.” Christ how did he do it. “Count, Dave. If you forget we start over.” You nod.

            The first slap is relatively gentle, a warm-up really.

            “One.”

            The next decidedly less so.

            “Two.”

            Christ. A muffled groan gets through your gritted teeth.

            “Three.”

            Your ass is burning now but you don’t care.

            “Six”

            God your dick is hard.

            “T-twelve.”

            You want him to fuck you right now.

            “Mm seventeen.”

            He’s just as hard as you are at this point. He’s moving slightly beneath you for friction.

            “AHH ahmm twenty-thre-ee.”

            You’re full on moaning now and you’re trying to shift on his lap so your dicks are touching.

            “TWENTY-FIVE.”

            You are so ready. He needs to fuck you right now. You’re trembling and gasping, John’s hiding his arousal better. He pushes you off his lap and you land on your stinging ass.

            “On the bed.”

            You manage to do as he says, though on shaky legs. He’s still sitting on the damn chair. He needs to fucking touch you NOW.

            “Panties off. Leave the socks.” The underwear is off and your cock is finally out. Christ you’re hard. He’s biting his lip, debating something. You wait for what seems like forever but is probably only thirty seconds. John licks his lips and says, “Touch yourself.”

            You’re momentarily surprised but recover quickly. There’s lube on your desk and you retrieve it, in the back of your mind glad that it’s nearly full (it wouldn’t be by the end of the night). It’s cold on your hands but you don’t care because you’re finally getting contact even if it’s your own. You begin pumping your own dick.

            You hiss at the initial cold but friction quickly changes that, not to mention the way John is staring at you. He’s cupping himself through his jeans and Jesus the faces he’s making. You’ve masturbated before, but not like this, with John right there staring at you. The whole thing is a million times hotter made only better by the fact he was doing the same.

            He undresses himself faster than you did earlier. He leaves his boxers on however, content with the limited contact while you’re busy fondling yourself. You’re voyeurs the pair of you, and wow it doesn’t even matter. Your strokes speed up and you’re breathing quickens. You’re going to come and he won’t have even really touched you.

            “John I-” you’re cut off when he suddenly jumps you on the bed pinning your hands up. His legs is parting your knees and his lips are on your neck. You whine with need.

            “Not yet, Dave” he manages to groan at your neck.

            The best you can offer back is a weak “Mmmmmm.” God his teeth! You felt him break the skin and sigh in appreciation. John pulls back, grinning wickedly. “Now,” you manage to retort.

            “Now,” he agrees tugging his boxers off. He hitches your legs up and spreads some lube on his fingers. There’s no longer any residual weirdness when he pushes the first finger in. Just impatience. But John was being as patient and careful as always. One, two, a scissoring motion, three, more movement. He’s pumping them in and out now and he manages to hit your prostate. The noise you make as a result is thoroughly embarrassing. John looks captivated though and is convinced you’re ready.

            He smears lube on his cock and positions himself for entrance. “NOW!” you repeat, the urgency somewhat lessened by the breathy state of your voice. He pushes his hips forward and he’s inside you. He groans and pauses. You’ve learned by now this is less for your benefit because you are ready to fucking go and more because he needs a moment to compose himself.

            Then he’s moving, Jesus Christ. You’ve felt many things in your life but none of them has compared to this, the feeling of John inside you. You’ve made time stop. Flown. Died. Became immortal. Felt every atom inside your body be ripped apart and immediately reconstructed into the being that is Dave Strider but nothing felt like this.

            It was all heat and skin on skin and god you loved him so damn much you’re surprised you lasted this long. You’re on fire and he is too and you’ve fallen into the center of the earth burning through everything in between and your nails scrabble against his back and he’s whispering something in your ear and it’s just your name over and over again an incantation prayer and spell all in one and when you orgasm his fingers around your cock and lips at your throat the world fucking ends and starts all over because of John fucking Egbert and that’s how it fucking should be.

 


End file.
